A Ranger's Tale
by Amita4ever
Summary: War can tear a family apart, change people's hearts and create bond's where none existed. An Elven Ranger's character history. FINISHED! Reviews welcome.


**AUTHORS NOTES & COPYRIGHTS: **I'm new to FanFiction so I'm not 100 certain if this story belongs here or not. While calling upon no specific published game world, this is the history of a character that was created for and in accordance to the rules used in the 2nd Edition AD&D system. In all other regards this character and her story are the creative property of FanFic Member Amita4ever.

It was also written as an exercise in exploring thought patterns that differed from humans, in this case elves, whose lives span centuries and might experience time from a slightly different perspective.

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**Airgiodach (Fearghal) Glasaelf**

A Ranger's Tale

I am Airgiodach Glasaelf, called Fearghal Glasaelf. My given name Airgiodach, pronounced ar-gyud-ya in the elven tongue, means silver leaves. It is a memory from when I was born with palest silver hair. This hair has long since taken a golden gleam, but the name remains though not oft used. The name I use, Fearghal, pronounced fir-gal, means valorous man, which is what I wish to appear to be. My hair is short, though not of my wishing it so, and my clothes strong leather and course cloth. I have oft times wished for the brocades and satins I have seen other ladies wear, but I have no doubt that I would no longer know how to conduct myself in them; I have played the man for too long.

Why play a man, you say? I don't know, except it was the only thing to do at the time, and it is the only thing I know how to do now. I am a Ranger, as my father was a Ranger, and his before him. For many generations my family had practiced this proud profession through times of honor, and other times as well, but we have never faltered in our duties. I am the last. In my short 255 years I have seen nearly three generations of humans pass by, but sadder still I have seen my own family die. The final war was hard on all, but like rabbits, the humans will soon recover. We elves, on the other hand, may just have the opportunity to watch our race fade into history. I, for one, do not wish this to happen, so I quest for others of my kind, that is Gray elves.

But why as a man you ask again? Well, as I said, it seemed the best thing at the time. As I also said my father was a Ranger. He married a beautiful elfin maid by the name of Arafel, which means joy, and she brought him much. She was lovely to look upon with long golden hair that glowed in the sunlight, and a face as fair as ivory. She had a soft voice, and soft hands, and soft ways. And after a time she bore his child, that was myself. I think perhaps my father was a little disappointed that he did not have a son to teach, but to elves children are a precious commodity for they have so few of them. When one dies the entire community will mourn. This is difficult for humans to understand, but then look at them, a child every year if they choose. We elves are lucky if there are three in a life time. For most there will be only one.

But I ramble. Yes, I was a girl child, but I was as eager to learn as my father was to teach, so I became his protégé. Not that Arafel let me forget the finer points of my sex, but I did so much love the woods and wild beasts more. Those were my happiest years.

The war began. Not that I was old enough, I was only 129 (that being not unlike a human child of 12), but every able bodied person, elf or human, was needed, so my father took me with him when he went to fight. Mostly we scouted, directing the armies to hiding or ambush, but I saw enough blood. Then we heard the enemy had broken through the lines miles away. They had gotten as far as a little elven village called Siodhachan, pronounced sheehan. The village had been destroyed, but the penetration had been stopped. It was ironic perhaps, but in the elven tongue Siodhachan meant peace. Oh, did I tell you that we had lived in Siodhachan? No? Well, we had, and no, my mother did not survive the attack. My father was never quite the same after that, but what could I expect, he and my mother had been soul-mates. When she died, so had a part of him.

We traveled alone for a few years letting the war rage it's own battles. I think my presence pained my father, so I tried to look as little like my mother as I could. I wore my hair short, I wore nothing but boys clothes, and tried to act like the boy he had wanted. I think I was successful for occasionally he would call me "son" or "my boy." These were good times for me, for while he still mourned, he was mine and mine alone. We explored the woods together, and he taught me most of what I know today.

Time passed, perhaps but five short years, before we found a second elven village. This one had no name, for there were none who had heart to do so. The village was made up of those that had survived the first few years of the war. There were not many, and those were mostly older elves. Many of the children had fallen to a epidemic that struck just as the war began. Those few that survived were weak and sickly even now. I felt misplaced among them, and spent little time in the village. My father, on the other hand, spent a great deal of time in the village. He was needed again, and he spent his time helping everyone.

He met a older elvish woman that way, and saw her quite often. Her husband had also been killed in the war much as my mother had. I did not like her, but neither could I say I disliked her. She was kind enough, of noble breeding I believe, but she was not my mother. In fact in many ways she was in no way like my mother; I had never met another like her before we found that village. Her hair was black as midnight, and her ways were, at times, very distant and aloof. She carried about her an incredible aura of power that made me uncomfortable. It was a sense of chaotic power that buzzed and hummed in disharmony with my woodland senses. I avoided her when I could. To my dismay, my father would not.

He finally remarried, and to no ones surprise he married the widow. It is strange for an elf to remarry, for you can have but one life-mate, but I guess they figured there was enough pain, someone to share it with would make it easier to bear. I was only 141 or so at the time, just beginning to enter the earliest stages of adulthood. You had to give her credit, she tried to be a mother to me, but I was too much the wild child. I wouldn't listen, and had no desire to learn the feminine ways, at least not from her. We rarely spoke, and when we did the exchanges were brief.

But while I avoided her, I found it difficult to avoid him. No, him was not my father. I saw my father as often as I could, but he seemed to have little time for me with his new lady. No, him was Rhys, pronounced reese. Did I neglect to mention that the woman already had a son? I think I did. His name meant burning or glorious, and it was well suited to him for he burned with desire. Although young, he was tall for an elf his age, leading me to believe he was older, and his violet eyes shone with such dark intensity that there were few, myself included, that would meet his gaze. His silver light hair set those eyes off in such contrast that the irises seemed carved of darkened amethyst, a color not quite natural, and distinctly unsettling. Volumous robes hid his bodily contours, but they couldn't hide the aura of disturbing unease that seemed to surround him.

Strangely, in spite of this, I was drawn to him. I am still not sure why. By all rights we should have hated each other, and at first I think we did. I resented his mother taking my father; he resented my father for taking his mother. They seemed to have little time for the children as they sought to make something that couldn't exist between themselves. These were hard times for Rhys and I, especially Rhys. (I, for the most part, simply vanished into the woodlands.)

Rhys was not well. I have yet to learn if this was a result of the epidemic, or a condition of birth, but he was even worse than the few elven children left. He would cough, and rasp, and wheeze at the slightest exertion, causing some great concern. I guess I should clarify this; they were not concerned for Rhys, but were concerned that he carried some disease that might infect the other children. Despite his mothers power, or perhaps because of it, they were not the most popular people in the village. But because of her power people shunned her. That left Rhys to bear the brunt. I saw much of this, for while I might hide away deep in the woods, I was still an elf, and I missed the company. To be near I would spend much time prowling around the woods at the village edge practicing the things my father had taught me. From here I saw many things, including that the other elven children were not near so weak as they were thought to be when it came to picking on someone even less fortunate than they. I think that is when I began to lose my hatred for him. I could not envy him, he had lost his father as I had lost my mother, but at least I had my health. Even now I remember the day I let the last shreds of hate slip away. I had tried so hard to cling to them, but that day I could not.

I had been in the woods as usual when I heard harsh and jeering voices. It is strange how a language as soft and beautiful as the elven tongue can be made to sound hard and cruel to one who knows it, and yet I have no doubt that a human would not have even noticed. But then look at their tongue, so harsh and sharp. They have little concept of the softer sounds, but then they are better than some I have heard.

But again I wander. Yes, I heard voices, young elven voices, and they were not raised in joy or play. Curious, I followed the sound. It led me to a portion of the village that was little traveled for there were fewer people living in it than it had been built for. Many of the houses were abandon and beginning to show their neglect. Doors were gone, shutters blown from the windows, dirt and debris was scattered about. Somehow the other children had gotten Rhys to follow them to an empty building there, and then they had turned on him. It is funny that I say children, for many were near my age, but I thought little of them, and was not impressed with their maturity. He was cornered and they were taking their turns pushing and shoving him about. I watched and did nothing, something for which I still feel ashamed, but I was not yet ready to forgive him for what his mother had done, and besides, they were not really hurting him... I heard his soft voice as he asked them why they did what they did, what had he done, but they gave him no answer. Finally he drew himself up and made a quick motion with one hand and spoke a word I couldn't quite hear. A small cloud of viscous green smoke suddenly appeared about the head of the child leader. I heard him cough and sputter, and he stepped from the cloud with little more than stinging eyes, but it was enough to cause the children to fall back. Rhys leaned against the wall vainly trying to control a fit of coughing that threatened to take away his sudden advantage. "Leave me be," I heard him rasp, "or I'll be forced to call forth greater powers."

The children nervously danced from foot to foot obviously unsure of what to do, but the child leader was not to be so easily frightened, his pride was in control. "Then let us see," he jeered, "I think you're too weak to even try." Again I watched, and I wondered to myself what it was about war that would make young elves so cruel. I had suffered too, but I was not hurting things. It bothered me that they should act this way, but still I did nothing to stop them. Rhys did not move except for the gentle shaking of his shoulders as he sought to control his cough, and the other children gathered courage from this. The taunting began anew, though I noticed that none of them touched him now. As a matter of fact, he was surrounded, but none would approach within 10 feet of him. I thought that perhaps he had earned a respite, but then I had never dreamed they would attempt physical injury. I should have known that when cowards want to prove they are brave, they will find ways. One of the children stooped down and picked up something from the ground. Too late I realized it was a stone. Even as I started to leap through the window from where I watched he threw it and his aim was good. It struck Rhys and he fell without a sound. I landed in the shadows and watched as the shocked looks of fear spread over the children's faces. It was plain to see that they thought they had killed him. There was a hurried whispered conversation, then they turned and fled as one. I knew they would not be back, nor would they be sending help.

I let them pass, then after they were gone, I stood and quietly walked to where Rhys lay. As I rolled him over I was shocked at his weight. A strong breeze could have picked him up and carried him over the trees. I know, an exaggeration, but it seemed that way. Blood oozed from a jagged cut above his eye, and his face was pale and white. I think that must have been the first time that I truly looked at him, for those dreaded eyes were closed. It was then that I saw him as he truly was: a child, worn and tired, with a face thin and gaunt bearing lines of elven elegance that would never fill out. His features were also strangely gentle as he lay there, but I could see where that gentleness was hidden beneath the years of forced maturity while he was conscious. I remember thinking that I had not realized he was so young, for he was much younger than I, and I also remember thinking that it wasn't fair that one so young should have suffered so, for even unconscious I could trace the lines of pain that were forming on his young, but time worn, face. It was then that I knew I could no longer hate him. I pulled a cloth from my pouch and carefully wiped away the blood. The cut was not deep, and I thanked the forces of Nature that while the stone's throw had been accurate, there had been little force behind it. Since there seemed to be no serious damage done so I gathered him in my arms and carried him to his mother's house, which was where my father also lived now.

I knew which room was his, for I had seen it when I was shown mine. I slipped in and carried my featherweight burden up the stairs unnoticed. I didn't want to worry either of the adults, although I was worried myself. True, the damage had not seemed serious, but I had seen men hit in the head during the war that had never awakened. I lay him in his bed, dressed the injury, then I sat and waited. It seemed that ages passed, but then I heard a movement. Rhys moaned softly and began to awaken. Assured that there had indeed been no serious damage I slipped silently from the room. I had no desire to play hero, in fact if anything, I felt ashamed. I could have prevented it from happening. It was then that I decided that Rhys should not have to fear walking within the village again.

It did not take much. I knew where the child leader lived, and paid him a visit. I showed him the arrow where I had painstakingly carved his name into the shaft and promised to deliver it personally if Rhys was ever hurt again. They tried to tease him a few times after that, but I had only to step from the trees and let them know I was there for them to leave him alone. I tried not to let Rhys know he had a silent protector, but whether or not I succeeded I do not know. He has never said anything, and I am not about to ask.

The other thing I did was to leave the delicate elven dagger that my mother had given me laying on the table beside his bed. It was slim and balanced for throwing; made of steel and silver, and inscribed with small runes. My mother had told me once it was magic, but if that was true, I did not know. What I did know was that metal weapons were scarce for most had been claimed at the beginning of the war. The blade his own mother carried was carved of hardened horn. I doubted if he had a proper weapon with which to defend himself, and cherished though that dagger was, I thought he could use it better than I. I never saw him carrying it, but I knew he had it somewhere for the blade had a tendency to appear in his hand when ever he needed it. I didn't learn till much later the 'magic' he used to do this. I've never learned if he knew the dagger's source.

Time passed again, and our parents began to realize that while the soul-bond was missing, what they had was good. With this realization came more time to spend with the children, or should I say child. My father was completely taken by Rhys, he finally had a son. He did not seem to care that the boy showed no interest in becoming a Ranger, he would take him for long walks in the woods and teach him things that would interest the boy. He taught him foraging and herbalism, and the ways to preserve the things he'd found. I always followed, again practicing the skills my father had taught me. This time I challenged the teacher, but I soon found my victories were hollow. When I failed and my father noticed my presence, I was lectured, if not on the fact that I had disobeyed and followed, then on what I had done wrong. When I succeeded, and kept my presence unknown, then only I knew I had succeeded. I wanted so much for my father to be proud of me, but now he had his new son. I can remember the long patient talks we had as he told me that I should understand. Rhys, he said, had lost his father and had no one to teach him these things. I wanted to tell him that I did understand, for I had lost my father too, but I held my tongue. What right did I have to interfere with his new found happiness?

Instead I began to resent Rhys. I could not hate him again, I had given that up, but I could and did resent his presence. I became his tormentor as well as protector. I would tease him about the magics that he was learning from his mother; push him to prove that he too was capable of spells. More often than not these incidents would end with a successful spell, but Rhys lying at my feet in a fit of coughing or a faint. Feeling guilty I would gather him up murmuring apologies, and carry him to the house. I don't think he ever heard me, for which I was glad, because as guilty as I would feel as I carried him, it never seemed to stop me from doing it again. It took me awhile to realize it, but the war **had** changed me and I could be just as cruel as the other children whether I knew it or not.

Meanwhile, during this time, the war had not stood still. With or with out us it had raged on growing nearer and nearer until it could no longer be avoided. Again my father went to fight, this time alone. Oh, I had wanted to come, if nothing else just to be with him again, but he wanted me to remain. "You've got to stay," he said, "protect Rhys and his mother for me. They're all I have left." What about me? I wanted to ask, but I kept my silence. I couldn't doubt his love for me. I was his true child. Things were just confused right now. The war was making everything chaotic and I knew things would be better when it was over. Instead I was proud that he had faith in my abilities, and proud that he entrusted me with those things so precious to him at the time. I promised that I would protect them, and watched my father ride away for the last time. And I did try to protect them, oh how I tried, but what can a bow do against a fever.

It had been 2 years since my father rode away. We had heard no word, so we had to assume (had to pray) that nothing had happened to him. Rhys's mother and I were on better terms, but I still could not understand the unease I felt around her. I know now it was the power she commanded. The forces of magic are energies in the form of pure chaos, governed by no laws. The magic-user commands these forces and gives them shape and order with his skill. It is an exacting science that takes a heavy toll. I, on the other hand, was a creature aligned with nature. In nature everything has it's place in the order, and certain laws and rules must govern. The two energies grate together like opposing songs of different tempos, but I don't think she ever noticed, so great were her powers. These two forces find it difficult to coexist, although I have learned they can. Some day I plan to learn some magic myself, but I think there must be another kind out there somewhere that will compliment nature, rather that oppose it. When I find it, then I will begin my studies.

But once again I ramble. Yes, it had been 2 years since my father left. A blink of the eye for an elf, but still an eternity waiting for a loved one to return. I was 185, well into early adult hood. Rhys was only 128.

It began, as so many things begin, with a merchant. He was one of the few who were still managing to ply a successful trade. How he ever found our little nameless village to begin with I will never know, but one day he showed up, and he had been coming ever since. There was really very little that we needed, for elves live with the land, but he had information on the war so we would buy what we could just to hear the news. We would await his arrival with dread anticipation each time, for this might be the time he carried the news we did not want to hear.

This time was not that time. He had little to say except that they were holding the lines, and that we should not expect our father soon. What is soon to an elf? Well I will tell you, tomorrow would not have been soon enough. What he brought instead were some strange fruit that he had picked up from a trade vessel. He did not know what they were, only that they were sweet and delicious, and if he didn't sell them soon they were going to go bad. Fruit is something elves enjoy and we were more that happy to relieve him of his entire remaining stock. I had never tasted anything like them before. They had a thick acrid purple skin, but inside the yellow green flesh was soft and sweet. We all enjoyed this respite from 'normal' food, and there was more than enough to go around. Then the fruit was gone and the day passed into memory.

But memory is not forgotten, and when the first people started getting ill, we thought of the fruit. First it was just chills and a pained throat, but it progressed and grew steadily worse. It was strange, for some people like Rhys and his mother were very sick, while others like myself were untouched. It took me awhile to make a connection, but slowly, as I helped care for the sick, I began to notice a pattern. Everyone who had taken ill had dabbled in magic at one time or another. The stronger the magic the individual had commanded, the more severe the infection. Those like myself who had never known the mystic arts were the only ones unaffected. This thought chilled my soul, for Rhys's mother commanded more power that any I had ever heard of.

I think she knew this, for as I told her the things I had noticed she only nodded. She told me the herbs that would help, and gave me special instructions for Rhys's care, but never once did she mention her future. I was not comforted by this, but did as I was told. Even while she was bedridden none of the others would help, so the care of Rhys and his mother fell to me. That was how I came to be with her when she died. I had come to regret not spending more time with her, for she was a good woman and very wise as well, but what was done was done. I did what I could and stayed with her when I had time. She told me the things I would need to care for Rhys then, and later, as he recovered. She was sure he would recover, she told me, for I had been correct when I said the amount of magic affected the strength of the infection. He was only at the first level of magic, and were he not so sickly he would have only suffered a few days fever. It was up to me, she said, to do the rest, to make him well again. Then she told me of a dream she had seen. My father was dead, she had seen him die. Take care of Rhys she said, he was all that I had left and what she said was true, for in truth I had not lost just one family, but two. If her dream was correct, we would be alone. The last thing she told me was to make sure that Rhys kept her spell books and component pouch (whatever that was, luckily Rhys knew), for she would have little use for them where she was going. She died that night, and then there was only Rhys.

It seemed like months before Rhys was able to move about alone again, but during that time we had learned about each other. It was no longer duty that kept me at his side, I truly cared. Though we shared no blood, he was my brother. I also prepared. I prayed that his mother's dream was false, but somehow I knew it was not. I also had a feeling that we must be ready to leave, quickly. I don't know where this feeling came from, perhaps the woods, which in all the hustle I had not abandon, but I knew that something was not right. Something was coming, and I did not want to be there when it arrived.

I received my conformation the next time the merchant came. He brought a package for me; my father's bow. He also brought news that the lines had fallen. I knew it was time to leave. I tried to tell the others, but they were convinced that their little nameless village was safe, so Rhys and I left alone carrying only my father's bow, his mother's books and pouch, and what little cash and journey food we could find. If I had been by myself I would have just disappeared into the forest, but Rhys could not survive that kind of life so we set out for a small city instead. There we could make a life for our selves.

I know, I still haven't answered the question, but let me ask you one instead. As I had said earlier I was only 185 years old. We were moving into human territory and humans judge by what they see. Although they know elves are long lived, I would appear only 16 or 17 to them. How was I, a "17" year old girl going to make a living for two in a human city? No, I was not going to do that. And then, even if I could find an honest job, what would it pay? What was likely to happen to me when it was discovered I had no husband or parents? Then what would happen to Rhys? I knew the answers for my father had not limited my knowledge to the forest, and I had learned much associating with the humans my father and I had fought with.

A 17 year old boy, on the other hand, was thought to be an adult. He is responsible, able to take care of himself, ready to prove he is a man. I was trained as a Ranger, traditionally a male role anyway. If they thought me to be a boy, then I would be accepted. I could hire myself out as a guide, or perhaps we could travel as guards. So I became a boy. It was not really that difficult. I had worked hard as I had grown, and mercifully had little that would qualify as a feminine figure. Anything yet to develop would be dealt with as it happened. As an elf I did not have to fear the lack of facial hair betraying me as would a human girl, nor was I exceptionally pretty either, so I was not likely to draw unwanted attention in that manner. I truly knew little about being a girl, so it was not difficult to slip into the opposite role. I had been playing the boy for so long it was almost natural, now I just had to appear as one too. So that is what I did.

The war is long since over, though it still lives in our memories. Over the years I have perfected and expanded many of my disguise techniques. I could probably appear as a fully bearded human if I wanted to now, but I've no desire to wear one of those wiry face things. How humans can stand them I will never know. Rhys has also perfected and expanded his techniques and skills. Any money he has is usually spent on his research or expanding his spell book. I am still fascinated by the magic he performs, but appalled by the price it exacts. I almost wish he would give it up, but I know he never will. I am sure there has to be a magic somewhere whose base is harmony, instead of chaos. Some day I will find it. Until then Rhys and I work together. Magic **can** be a very effective combination with steel. And if there are times when nothing seems to go right, well, at least we have each other.


End file.
